The Last Man in Town

During the First World War, in a tiny Alberta town, every man but one volunteers for service. Thus, Jack Quincy must satisfy the sexy desires of 25 lusty women.

Part One

Most people have heard an angry woman declare about a fellow she loathes that if so-and-so was the last man remaining on Earth, she still would not have anything to do with him. Well, back in 1915, in the tiny Canadian community where I lived, I was not the last man on the planet, but it certainly felt like it. I was literally the last man in town. For me, it worked out very well!

My name is Jack Quincy. I am writing this memoir in late 1961 as a 76-year-old, more than 46 years after the fact. I resided in a small hamlet in Alberta called Dunfield. It was located about halfway between Edmonton and Calgary. I was 28 years old when I moved there in 1913 to become the jack-of-all-trades for that tight-knit community. I was employed as Dunfield’s librarian, archivist, and postmaster. I actually got three pay envelopes each month, one for each hat I wore as a public servant.

As there were only 78 people who lived in Dunfield according to the 1911 census, none of the jobs was overly strenuous on me. Our library was situated in a single room of the town hall. It had a few hundred volumes in it. On a very busy day, 20 people might use it, but they were mostly there to read the out-of-town, daily newspapers to keep up with world events. (Radio and television were still science fiction in those days.) I was unable to man Dunfield’s library, though, because I couldn’t be in two places at once. I basically turned it into a self-service book repository, but nobody minded. Federal regulations stated I had to be present at our post office during all its hours. I suppose I technically broke those rules when I temporarily vacated my spot behind the wicket at the post office to give somebody access to the library. If a patron actually wanted to borrow a book, he or she had to bring it to me at the adjacent post office where I simply wrote down the title, the person’s name, and the date in a notebook. That was the extent of the library’s record-keeping. Due dates did not exist. I simply informed all the borrowers to return their books in a timely manner once they were finished with them. I never once had to pester anyone to be reasonable about doing that, nor can I recall any patron being antsy about waiting for a book to be returned. Everyone got along splendidly with one another.

My job as the Dunfield’s archivist was even less taxing. I mostly kept track of land transfers when property was sold. I also made sure I saved every copy of the weekly newspaper that covered the goings-on of this small town even though it was published in a metropolis of 2,000 people a few miles away. I might get half a dozen inquiries per year for someone who was curious to examine an official document or an old newspaper.

As for my post office job, it was the most important of the three by far. I saw a huge percentage of Dunfield’s residents practically every day as using the inexpensive postal system was vitally important to everyone back in the 1910s. The war increased the volume of local mail at least threefold. People wrote far more letters than they did later in the century. There was no home mail delivery for anyone. Everyone came to see me to collect their letters and occasional parcels and to send any outgoing mail. I had arranged people’s boxes not by their addresses, but by their surnames. Every piece of mail that went in and out of them went through me. I got to learn people’s names and recognize everyone’s faces in the hamlet very quickly. Life was enjoyable for me. I thought I couldn’t be happier.

Alberta was an extremely patriotic part of Canada in 1914 when the First World War erupted. Without exception, all of the residents of Dunfield had British ancestry. Moreover, they were only removed from the Old Country by one or two generations at most. Thus, they all unquestionably bought into the idea of supporting their beloved British Empire—on which the sun never set—in its hour of crisis. When Canada went to war in August 1914, literally every able-bodied male of military age in Dunfield enlisted to fight. There were 23 of them. (Seven of them would never return. Another four came home with serious wounds.) Among those who volunteered for the Canadian Expeditionary Force was the local reeve—the hamlet’s equivalent of the mayor. When he left, I was appointed the interim reeve by default. I had to assume that role, too, because women could not legally vote nor hold political office yet. That law would change soon, though. Now I was getting four salaries. I was doing quite well financially.

I should explain that although I was of military age, I was deemed ineligible to join the army for two reasons: I had substandard eyesight, so I needed glasses. I also had a left elbow that had been badly damaged in a sports injury when I was eight years old. It never healed properly which meant I could never straighten that arm. By adulthood, my left arm was about two inches shorter than my right one. When I later heard first-hand accounts about the horrific conditions on the Western Front, I was quietly thankful that I did not qualify to put on my country’s uniform. I was also grateful to the classmate of mine whose wild, hard throw had shattered my elbow joint with a baseball two decades earlier.

I should also state that I was a bachelor who had no steady girlfriend in 1914. I cynically figured that females were not especially attracted to males with crippled arms who wore eyeglasses no matter how successful they were in life. Once the war started, however, the women of Dunfield became considerably less choosy about men.

By October 1914, I was the only male left in Dunfield who was not a child. The 23 volunteers had been transported by train some 2,000 miles eastward to Quebec for their military training. By New Year’s Day, the females of the hamlet were becoming fairly lonely for male companionship. I started noticing that the hamlet’s women began lingering at the post office and library far longer than they ever did before, just for the purpose of chatting with me. That was a pleasant development! Then I began getting dinner invitations that I’d never gotten before the outbreak of war. Finally, in February 1915, I got my first sexual proposition from a local gal. It was from a 28-year-old woman, a mother of two small children named Florence Sumner, a chestnut-haired beauty whose husband was one of the 23 volunteers serving overseas. He was a corporal, according to how letters to him were addressed.

One Tuesday morning when Florece arrived at the post office to collect her mail, I gave her a stack of five letters that had been sent to her by her absent husband. Instead of being pleased, she exclaimed, “I can’t take it anymore! Michael’s letters from overseas are nice, but they aren’t the same as human contact! I need sex!” Of course, no one else was present when Florence made that bold, unladylike declaration. She continued, “Please, Jack, come to my home tonight for dinner and then share my bed!” Florence was a well-built young woman with a pretty face. Therefore, I quickly accepted her offer and arrived at the appointed time of 5:30 p.m.

Part Two

Florence turned out to be a marvelous cook. She baked a ham and prepared accompanying vegetables superbly. We did not dine alone, however, as her six-year-old daughter and four-year-old son joined us. They knew me as the “nice post office man who brought letters from our Daddy.” Florence had to tactfully explain that I was staying the night to “do some things that Daddy would normally do.” I thought her wording of that was quite clever. The moment the children went to their beds, Florence and I went to hers.

It had been a very long time since I had enjoyed female company in such an intimate way, so I became aroused long before I got undressed. As I sat on the edge of the bed, already sporting a full erection, I enjoyed watching Florence peel away the many layers of clothing that an adult woman typically had in 1915. When she removed the last garment, I was compelled to say, “Very nice indeed, Florence! Your breasts are especially enticing! They’re lovely things to behold.”

“Michael thinks so, too!” she admitted. Deep down I disliked the idea of bedding a Canadian soldier’s wife while he was on the dangerous front lines somewhere in Belgium or France, but I figured I was providing another service to the best of my ability. As she climbed into the bed, Florence gave me one brief instruction: “I’ve missed having sex for six months. Give it to me rough, Jack, if you please!”

I obliged. Apart from a few squeezes on her delightful tits, I quickly mounted Florence and thrusted away, pounding her vagina with everything I had—figuratively and literally. Florence responded with positive feedback. “Yes, just like that, Jack! That’s exactly what I want!” I had no trouble going balls-deep within her.

“How about from behind?” I suggested for our next position of intercourse.

“Yes, please!” Florence replied. She was certainly the politest bedmate I’d had in recent memory.

We quickly assumed that position. Florence elevated her behind slightly, and I continued to service her to the best of my ability. I found the rhythmic smacking sound of my crotch and her bum cheeks to be comforting. Within a few minutes I knew an orgasm was near. Florence anticipated it, too.

“Don’t pull out, Jack. Michael never does! It’s not really sex if you pull out before ejaculating!”

I thought that comment was highly debatable, but I wasn’t going to argue with Florence. I unloaded a few blasts of jism into her pussy as I let out an audible “Woo!” that I feared might wake the two Sumner children. (It didn’t.) Florence uttered a contented “Aah!” in return. With my business completed, I pulled out of her and a large dollop of goo fell from Florences pussy onto the bed sheet. I suspected that was only a small fraction of what I had deposited inside her, however.

Florence was undeniably delighted with our romp. To show her utter satisfaction with me, she did something I’d never seen or heard of any female doing. She began smothering my penis with kisses! It wasn’t fellatio as there was no sucking or licking of my manhood. It was just kiss after kiss after kiss placed on my testicles and all the way to the tip of my shaft. The effect was amazing as I quickly got hard only about a minute after my penis had become flaccid.

“Michael likes it very much when I thank him this way,” Florence said while flashing a naughty smile at me.

“I can see why!” I responded. Florence’s affectionate kisses to my lower region continued for at least five minutes. For the next hour or so, I became equally affectionate with her, caressing every inch of Florence’s body—focusing primarily on her two terrific tits, of course. Her nipples were especially sexy objects to fondle. Florence craved more intercourse, however. Mere sexual touching was not going to satisfy her this night.

“Jack, you must be revived from when you came earlier,” she deduced. “Give me another fuck, please. and don’t you dare pull out!”

Again, I was very accommodating to my hostess. What normal male wouldn’t be? We screwed in a side-by-side position so I could enjoy groping Florence’s boobs while I slid my penis inside her pussy. I was quieter when I came the second time because the cum shot I was discharging was nowhere near the volume of the first one. I was still breathing heavily when I asked her, “Aren’t you afraid of becoming pregnant by me? That would complicate your marriage terribly.”

Florence said something that absolutely startled me. It was, “Jack, I don’t expect I’ll ever see Michael again. I don’t think he’ll be coming home. I often have a sixth sense about things. Whenever I read Michael’s letters to me, I get an overwhelming feeling that he’ll die in the war.”

About eight weeks later his letters home abruptly stopped. A week after that, Florence received a telegram saying that her husband was officially missing in action somewhere in France. When he was not listed as a prisoner of war or on the casualty list, it could be assumed that Michael Sumner had been killed and his body was not recovered. The grisly truth was that it was highly probable that there was no body left to recover. During the First World War, most casualties were from artillery shells. Michael had likely been one of millions of soldiers on both sides who was blown to smithereens by high explosives. After due time, Michael Sumer was declared dead for legal purposes.

Part Three

Before that sad news reached Dunfield, I wondered what my awkward relationship with Florence Sumner really was. I found out two mornings after our evening of fucking when 30-year-old Catherine Jamieson strolled into the post office at about 10 o’clock. She was one of the few women in the hamlet who did not collect her mail on a daily basis. She preferred to let it pile up for a while. Catherine waited until the two women in the queue in front of her had finished their long chats with me before checking to see no one else was going to enter the building. When we were alone, she got to the point quickly.

“Good morning. Florence Sumner told me you gave her a good screwing, Jack,” she said without emotion. “I need one, too. I haven’t had one since my Philip enlisted in the army. Florence recommended you very highly indeed.”

I got the implication. Florence considered me to be a wonderful provider of sexual services and nothing more than that. That was fine by me. I was willing to screw every single one of the 30 or so females in Dunfield who were of legal age but not grandmothers if it made them happy. Such a situation certainly made me happy! Catherine offered me a fried chicken dinner that very night. I promptly accepted her hospitality.

Like Florence, Catherine was a mother of two. She had a pair of girls aged ten and seven. The older daughter, a precocious, reed-thin lass named Mary, knew I was there for more than dinner. She eyed me with a bit of resentment. I suspected she objected having me replace her absent father in the marriage bed. Catherine later confirmed I was correct about that when we were alone.

“Jack,” she began, “I told both my daughters that you would be a dinner guest tonight and you’d be staying overnight with me for ‘male companionship.’ Mary is more worldly than I thought she was. She knew I was referring to sex. She didn’t like the idea of anyone taking the place of her father. I did my best to explain to her that the war had created extraordinary circumstances and I had physical needs and desires that needed fulfilling. She accepted what I said, I think, but I could tell she didn’t like the idea.”

Catherine was an attractive, auburn-haired female, but she did not come close to having the figure of Florence Sumner. Nevertheless, she was just as enthusiastic about having sexual intercourse with me. She insisted on riding me and giving me as much pleasure as possible. It was terrific! Our sex was different in one significant way, though: “For heaven’s sake, Jack, let me know when you’re going to come so we can separate. I don’t want you ejaculating inside me, of course.” I guess Florence hadn’t told her all the details about our coital romp 48 hours earlier. Be that as it may, I greatly enjoyed lying on my back and playing with Catherine’s small breasts while she gyrated on my stiff penis. Within five minutes I could sense an impending orgasm.

“Time to stop the ride, Catherine,” I told her. “I can’t last much longer without coming.” Catherine dismounted in a hurry and kindly jerked my rod three or four times with her left hand. Shortly thereafter it was covered in my warm jism as was her lower abdomen.

“Did you like that, Jack?” she asked quite unnecessarily.

I answered the silly question affirmatively. “That was marvelous. Catherine! You are certainly an excellent bedmate. Do you want me to stay the night?”

“Of course, I do!” she replied instantly. She then added, “Jack, I do have a favor to ask you, though.”

“Ask me anything!” I stated. “What is it you want from me?”

Catherine paused for a moment and said to me somewhat sadly, “Not once since we’ve been married—and it’s been 11 years—has Philip ever given me oral sex. Do you know what I mean, Jack? He’s never licked my pussy, not even once. I asked him about it. He told me he doesn’t think it’s a manly thing to do. Would you do that for me, please, Jack? I’d really appreciate it!”

“Anything to oblige!” I said in response—especially since I did not ejaculate inside my sex partner for that night. “Catherine, my dear, lie back, spread your legs, relax and let me at it!”

I gave her what I hoped was a world-class licking in her most private part, although I suspect she had no previous experience to compare it with. I licked her hairy vagina upwards, downwards, and sideways. I targeted her clit and stimulated it with my right thumb. I gleefully spread her pussy lips and stuck my tongue inside it. (I offered an apology for not having a very long one.) I discovered by accident that Catherine was a squirter as I got an unexpected liquid blast to my face. I just laughed at the occurrence. I took her orgasm as a huge compliment to my joyful work. Catherine was also overflowing with thanks for that successful sex act.

“Jack, my dear, I have to return the favor, of course,” she told me. As her suggestion, we left the bed for a few minutes so I could receive fellatio while standing up. Before she knelt and began pleasuring me, Catherne commented, “For some reason, it’s perfectly alright for me to give Philip a blowjob but he doesn’t think it’s right for him to lick me where it counts.”

I laughed at that remark and was quickly overcome by the intense sensation of having my revived penis stimulated orally. Catherine definitely knew what she was doing. She was excellent at it! Superb, in fact. I suspect Philip had coached her very well over the past decade. When she began licking my testicles, I knew I wouldn’t last too much longer. Catherine answered a question I was going to ask, without my having to ask it.

“You’re welcome to ejaculate in my mouth, Jack,” she happily told me. “There’s no way I can get pregnant from a mouthful of your cum.”

I took her up on her offer. She opened her mouth as widely as she could. I promptly placed my shaft on her tongue so I could see my handiwork. Within a few seconds, I shot a decent-sized load that she swallowed without the slightest hesitation. Only a few drops of my semen rolled out of her inviting mouth and onto her chin. I made a point of collecting them with my right index finger and putting the spillage back into her mouth. She giggled. “Philip has never done that!” she said. “That’s about the only thing he’s never done during one of my blowjobs.”

I did stay the whole night in Catherine’s bed—although the cum shot into Catherine’s mouth was my last climax of our encounter. I fell asleep to the pleasant sensation of my hostess stroking my rod.

When I awoke in the morning, I greeted Catherine with several long kisses. I washed up and headed for the front door long before her two children had risen.

“Say hello to Irene Murphy for me when she comes to the post office today,” Catherine told me.

Knowing that Irene was one of the few people who did not visit the post office each day, I asked Catherine, “How do you know Irene will pick up her mail today? Quite often she doesn’t.”

“She’s third on your screwing list, Jack. Florence told about ten of us how good it was to have sex again. We agreed to ask you, the last man in town, for sex in an orderly fashion. I was second. I know Irene is third. If I remember correctly, Mabel Kennedy is fourth, Jean Thompson is fifth…”

I was beginning to enjoy this war!